Riding the wave.

No news from the farmers. I send emails. I call. No one responds positively. Neither the Calabrese nor the Siciliani. Seems that everyone is getting ready for the festa, the few weeks in August when the country closes. It’s too hot in Sicily to harvest anything and all the plantings been done ages ago, so the work on the farms is minimal. No need for little old volunteering me.

Maybe around the end of the month and into September when the carob and cactus pears are ready.

Things are ready to pop here in Bagheria too. Today I went into Palermo and did a little sight seeing. When I returned this evening the streets were teeming with people. People I had not seen before. Lots of Mercedes and Mazzeratti drove slowly through the streets of Bagheria. On the streets beautifully tanned, clothed and coifed, thinner than your typical Bagherese visitors greeted the denizens more familiar to me. I seemed to be in a swarm of homecomings.

The many baseball cap sporting Italo-Americans are loud and large next to their Sicilian cousins. Before the Church piazza a red carpet is unrolled leading to unknown parts. A performers stage is under construction.

Making my way through the streets I am headed to the Butcher’s apartment.

My days of living steps from the Tyrrhenian sea luxuriating in the stillness of this place seem to be over.

As for now, I feel in sync. Life erupts on the streets in full regalia. Decorated streets, decorated people. Twilight dims the sun, festival lights cast upon the chattering folk. I move through the crowd in a daze dodging arms and cigarette smoke as I go. I understand barely a word here and there. So much dialect blurring any recognizable ending, declination or name.

His apartment is just a few feet from the end of the street and all its glistening. I have a key. In fact I have the keys. It’s about 8pm now, and he will be home by 9:30. I am making dinner tonight.

Sounds normal? Dating couple, new girlfriend making dinner for her new guy. What you don’t know is that I have been here since July 31st. 5 days after I met him.

I don’t know how to write about it. What I can say is: I do not know what is happening. Something is, and each day that we sit to dinner, or lunch or coffee, we ride a wave of interest, conversation, familiarity, excitement, delight and comfort that catches us, unnerves us and leaves us asking, “how many days is this ?” It’s been just over a week. We know we are getting ahead of our selves, of course. As F. ”col tempo, paso a paso.” Yes, all true. With time, step by step. But my feet have nothing to do with this.

Not having language makes it simpler.

No I have not lost my mind.

I am entirely dependent on my intuition. And this seems rational. It’s not about my having enough data on F. to make decisions, it’s about clarity with myself. I have nothing but me to protect here, I have only to be mercilessly honest with myself, identify the escape route for what ever step towards him I make and I seem to manage.

If I were able to speak with him, wouldn’t I start to listen? Wouldn’t I believe his stories of himself? Wouldn’t I run the risk of accepting reports instead of learning things on my own? Instead I talk to myself the most, and yes send plenty of emails to Jenny, my best friend back home, but mostly to myself. And Lise only knows what she intuits and with time, what she sees and experiences.

By the 31st, I did not know when I would be going to any farms and was seriously considering relocating to Cefalu. Very concerned for me and sad I would be gone, he invited me to stay with him if I wanted, as long as I wanted.

So here I am. Tonight he brings meat as he has every night, and we eat tomatoes shaped like flowers, sweet red onions sliced transparently thin, risotto with orange and herbs and we ride the wave. Col tempo, paso a paso.

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